


once upon a dream

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, Former Sugar Baby Luke, M/M, Modern Royalty, prince ashton, suck on this disney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which His Royal Highness Prince Ashton of Australia discovers that a love worth having is a love worth fighting for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so, hi! i casually posted something on tumblr about writing a lashton modern royalty fic (because i'm a slut for royalty aus, okay???) and by god, i actually got around to planning it. so this is it. or at the very least, the beginning. i mean, there's nothing much more to say other than
> 
> enjoy!!

Luke draws Ashton closer with outstretched arms and white skin and teeth and the bitter taste of beer in his mouth. Ashton’s stomach churns when he arches his neck down and Luke’s drunkenly limp arm loops around Ashton's neck and he says  _fuck me_  so sweetly Ashton thinks he might be dreaming. It is impossible to resist the deft strokes and pretty blond writhing beneath him, the clawing at his shoulders, the throes of faux graciousness when he asks so nicely with a cheeky glint in his eye, _Ash, please_.  

Ashton’s posture can be shaken by only one thing, one person. His composure is infinitely perfect, save for Luke; without Luke to disturb him, he looks like a living god with his saintly smile and his fresh-tanned skin. He thinks, secretly, that this will never really change as Luke, pale and ample, draws shapes like harp-strings on the liquid smooth curve of Ashton’s torso like he doesn’t already know every line, every muscle, every imperfection and every little grace.

Luke’s mouth is labouring on his neck, but Ashton somehow, _somehow_ , manages to pull himself away for half a second. “Wait—wait,” he says, breathless, interrupted by the strained press of Luke’s lips against his, continuing to mutter endearments and obscenities in equal abundance. “I need to—Luke, stop it, I need to ask you if—” Ashton’s words are lost in the hot cavity of Luke’s mouth as the younger man holds him down by the back of the neck with a sweaty palm where his hair once curled wildly.

Ashton allows himself to be dictated, manoeuvred flat onto his back and pinned down by Luke’s larger frame. There is something about relinquishing control to Luke that sends a pleasant shiver racing down his spine—that is, of course, if you believe he ever held any of the aces between them at all. The reality, as Ashton is beginning to understand, is that he is so far gone for this boy that he would do absolutely anything for him without so much as a second thought. Quite a dangerous thought, all things considered.

In his bliss, Ashton forgets about the matter that once seemed so urgent.

Indeed, it’s not until Luke nuzzles him awake, softly and unconsciously, with the sheets rustling and pillow-wrinkles creasing the exposed skin of their arms, backs and cheeks that he remembers. Ashton half-opens his eyes and brings his hand up absently to rest in Luke’s flaxen gold curls. Around them, the light is still low, the product of a late-rising August sun, so Ashton does nothing but doze in and out of consciousness until Luke properly awakens, already beginning to grumble about the throbbing in his temple and the semen caked and cracking on the back of his thighs.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ashton begins, pausing to allow Luke to make some dim-witted remark about how _that’s a change_ or _don’t hurt yourself, Ash_ , though ultimately it never comes. “If you wanted, I could have the Royal Court release a statement about our relationship—you know, officialising it, publicly-speaking,” he says, inwardly cringing at how _proper_ he sounds, because usually being with Luke gives him the freedom to be anything but. “If you wanted,” he reiterates, tensing as Luke continues to stay silent. “I can understand if you don’t want the hassle—”

“Sounds _amazing_ ,” Luke says, mouth curved in a pretty smile.

“Really?” Ashton asks, surprised. He expected at least some qualms on Luke’s part.

“ _Really_ ,” Luke says, smile changing to that shit eating grin that makes Ashton roll his eyes. He moves up onto his hands and knees, hovering over Ashton, his curls falling down and tickling the older boy’s nose. “You can take me out properly now,” he adds cheekily, leaning down to give him a little Eskimo kiss.

“Oh, is that so.” Ashton grins, lifting a hand to tuck Luke’s hair behind his ears before kissing him for real this time. “Well, if that’s the case, you’ll say yes to coming to Wellington with me next week.”

Luke sits back on Ashton’s thighs, looking positively divine, hair a golden halo. “What for?” he asks, cocking his head, hands coming to rest on Ashton’s sides, lazily stroking the skin there.

“The Wallabies are playing the All Blacks. I’ve been invited to attend and I guess—I mean, it’s a pretty safe bet for a first public appearance,” Ashton explains, covering Luke’s hands with his own, filling the space between his fingers. He’s had this exact conversation with Calum before, working out the logistics. “All you have to do is know the words to Advance Australia Fair and not swear too much at the opposition when we’re losing.”

Luke pretends to think for a moment, purposely shifting around in Ashton’s lap. “I can do that,” he eventually says.

For the first time that morning, Ashton properly relaxes, letting himself sink into the sheets, trapped comfortably beneath Luke. He untwines his fingers from Luke’s as they just look at each other for a moment, letting his fingertips drag up Luke’s legs, from his knees to his hips, and settle on the shallow dip of his waist, thumbs pressing into the soft, fleshiness of his tummy.

Ashton wishes he could stay like this forever, cuddled up with Luke, but there’s a committee meeting on the legacy of Australian investment in Vanuatu he needs to get ready for—and as much as another day spent with Luke is a much more enticing prospect, it is his royal duty to attend. With a little shrill of excitement, though, he reminds himself that it won’t be too long before they can begin doing things together, as a couple, and that’s all Ashton wants. It’s all he’s ever really wanted.

“Right, I need to get going,” Ashton announces, giving Luke’s bare backside a light smack when he doesn’t initially move.

Luke groans into Ashton’s neck where he’s since taken refuge. Ashton can feel his slow, deep breaths against his collarbone, his body sagging as it threatens to fall back asleep. He can sleep for however long he pleases, just not on top of Ashton. Not right now, at least.

“Come on, babe,” he urges, bringing his hands up to Luke’s broad shoulders and pushing on him gently.

Luke mutters something unintelligible into Ashton’s skin, something akin to a complaint, but moves anyway. He flops over onto his back, bringing up his arms to hide his eyes from the light now spilling in through the window. Ashton gives him a quick kiss on the arm as he climbs over him and out of bed.

He’s still there when Ashton returns from his shower, cocooned further into the thin sheets, curled up tightly. He likes to do that; make himself small, curling in on himself or slouching as he stands, shoulders hunched. Maybe it’s his instilled preference for good posture, or perhaps because he finds height so damn sexy, but Ashton often finds himself wishing Luke would embrace his body a little more. Sometimes he’ll catch him prodding and poking at himself, sucking in his tummy and running a hand over his chest, down the soft underside of his arms; he doesn’t hate his body, per se, but there is a part of him still not entirely comfortable in his own skin.

Ashton, of course, will always be there to dispel any of his doubts, just as Luke will always be there to take Ashton’s stress away when everything gets too much.

They make a damn good team, Ashton thinks fondly, pottering around in his travel bag for something to wear. He pulls on a pair of jeans and shirt; nothing too extravagant, mindful that he’ll only be getting changed once he’s back at Richmond Palace. Where Calum will be waiting. Ready to get at his ass for cutting it fine to get organised and catch their flight to Port Vila.  

After perching on the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of socks, Ashton twists around onto his stomach, reaches over and touches the exposed skin of Luke’s shoulder. “Luke? You awake, babe?” He receives a small _humph_ in reply. “Can I get a kiss before I go?”

“Suppose,” Luke mumbles sleepily, appearing from between the sheets, eyes droopy and bleary.

It’s Luke that shifts up and presses their lips together, tender but firm, causing Ashton’s eyelashes to flutter butterfly-delicate shut. It seems to last an eternity, but it’s over before it begins. When he pulls away, Ashton can still feel the tingle of Luke’s stubble around his mouth, and he savours it before it disappears, knowing it’ll be at least a few days before he encounters it again.

“Speak later, yeah?” Ashton runs his fingers through Luke’s hair again, setting it out of place and causing it to cascade down one side of his face.

“Later,” Luke agrees, nodding his head before dropping back down onto the pillow.

“Sweet dreams, babe.”

 

 

For Luke, home is a fifth-floor rundown apartment in a neighbourhood full of grumpy old widows and recluses, with creaking and talking and rushing in the walls from water pipes and heating and the old lady on fourth floor who is quite possibly a ghost. It’s not a great place to live, but it is tenable, so he keeps his whining to a minimum, if only in fear of Michael smacking him across the head with a moderately heavy object.

It’s past two o’clock in the afternoon by the time he gets home, armed with two greasy McDonald’s takeaway bags to somewhat appease Michael for blowing him off last night without an explanation. In his defence, it’s not like he could exactly tell Michael that he’s off to a fancy hotel to fuck the future king of their country. For one, Michael would think he was utterly delusional, and two, in the interest of both his and Ashton’s privacy, he swore on his grave not to tell a soul. Things are a little different now, he supposes, because he could tell him now—because now, now the whole world’s going to know.

It’s a Saturday, so Luke isn’t all that surprised to find Michael lounging around watching the television in just a t-shirt and boxers.

“I was wondering where you were,” Michael says nonchalantly, not moving his eyes from the screen.

“Really? You didn’t text. Or call,” he points out, depositing the food down onto the coffee table, purposely walking in front of the television to do so. If looks could kill, Luke would probably be dead—or at the very least, seriously maimed.  

“I said I was wondering where you were, not that I cared about your general well-being,” Michael snaps, grabbing one of the bags and poking his face inside.

Luke takes a moment to pretend to be offended before shrugging off his travel bag and collapsing onto the little armchair that doesn’t match the sofa. He’s not tired as such, just a little overwhelmed. His entire life is about to change and he has no idea how to deal with it. Maybe he should’ve asked Ashton about it. Maybe he should’ve thought it over more. But, then again, Luke doesn’t exactly do much logical thinking when it comes to Ashton, so it probably wasn’t ever really an option.

“You alright, dude?” Michael asks, picking a gherkin from his burger and throwing it back into the bag.  It’s more of a general question than something based on any vibe Luke is giving off.

“Course,” Luke says, shifting forward to unzip his hoodie and take off his snapback. He cards his fingers through his hair before leaning over to grab his own lunch. It’s the truth (but maybe not the whole truth) and Michael seems content enough with his response when Luke shifts his gaze over to him. “I’m sorry we couldn’t hang out yesterday,” he apologises, just to get it over with.

Michael shrugs through a mouthful of greasy chips. “Wasn’t bad getting a break from your ugly face.”

“Thanks,” Luke mutters, weighing up the consequences of throwing a chip at Michael. It’ll probably end in chaos, and he is hungry, so he decides against it. Plus, whoever starts it has to clean up, and Luke really can’t be arsed with that.

“So, are you going to tell me about him?”

Luke startles mid-bite into his burger and accidently smears mayonnaise into his beard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about it,” he says, convincing fucking no one.

“Don’t bullshit me, Hemmings,” Michael warns, wiping the grease from his fingers down the front of his t-shirt. “You’ve been acting all weird and spacey for weeks. Who are you fucking now?”

“No one,” Luke snaps back, a tad too defensive.

“It’s not another married one, is it?”

“Fuck off, Mike,” Luke huffs, occupying himself with his burger once again. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let Michael of all people—who’s probably sent more annoyingly impressive dick pics via Grindr than the entire gay population of New South Wales combined—lecture him on sexual morals. Fuck that. No fucking way.

“If this is another Peter situation—”

“You know what, you don’t get to fucking talk about him!” Luke actually _shouts_ at Michael, a switch going off in his head. His anger very soon turns to shame, though, and Luke sinks back into the armchair, abandoning his lunch to hide his face in his hands. He wants Ashton. He wants Ashton’s kisses and cuddles and smiles to make him feel better about himself. He tightens his fists against his forehead in the realisation that he can’t, catching some of his hair and pulling it tight, stinging his scalp. It’s a shooting pain but a welcome distraction. “I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“Don’t be. Sensitive subject. I’m sorry.”

Luke’s not mad, not really, so he doesn’t let any sort of negative air settle and suggests a game of Sourz and Sandstorm later—an ingenious game involving taking shots and listening to awful noughties trance music until one of them is sick or passes out. It doesn’t usually end well, and neither of them have actually ever won, but they play it when going out is just too much hassle or they’re feeling particularly antisocial. Now is one of those times.

“I’ll make the playlist and you get the drink,” Michael agrees, fishing around in the paper bag for the last few straggling chips and crushing them into his mouth. They’re going to regret the McDonald’s later on.

“Deal.”

 

 

“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘don’t shoot the messenger’?”

Ashton shifts his gaze from his own reflection, wrestling with the small white buttons of his dress shirt, to that of Calum, standing with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, a leather binder wedged under his arm. He looks incredibly dapper in his usual pinstripe suit and black tie, but Ashton is more interested in that look in Calum’s eye, that one that always accompanies bad news.

“Is the dinner cancelled?” Ashton asks which, okay, isn’t really _that_ bad, but he is pretty hungry after his flight and the pleasantries that followed when he arrived.

Calum sighs, dropping his eyes to the floor, as though preparing himself, before flicking them back up to look Ashton, who turns to face his oldest friend. “It’s the Court, they—” Calum stops, shaking his head lightly. “I’m sorry to tell you, Your Highness, but the Court does not approve of your relationship. Your request for a statement was met with much resistance.” Clearly, he takes no such pleasure in telling Ashton this, but he’s learnt not to sugar-coat these sorts of things; Ashton is a big boy now, and he knows he can’t get everything his own way. Crown Prince of Australia or not.

It takes a moment, maybe more, for the weight of this information to settle in Ashton. In fact, he’s not even aware of the frown that creeps across his features until he turns slightly and notices the sad-looking figure in the mirror staring back at him.

He clears his throat, regains his composure. “Very well. I don’t need their approval anyway. I’ll simply let people put two and two together when I take him to Wellington.” Distracting himself, Ashton finishes buttoning up his shirt and turns away from the dresser in search of his bowtie.

“Is that wise?”

“Is what wise?” Ashton asks, halting to turn to Calum.

“Going out with him to a public event. The press will have a field day with the speculation,” Calum answers as courtly as possible. He doesn’t really want Ashton to get worked up right before he’s to attend dinner with the President of Vanuatu.

Ashton doesn’t move from his spot, bowtie seemingly abandoned for the time being. His face scrunches slightly in confusion. “What’s there to speculate? We’re dating. If anyone asks, I’ll answer exactly that. Like I said, I don’t need their approval, and I refuse to keep Luke hidden away any longer.” Ashton’s face softens at the thought. “He deserves better than that.”

Calum swallows hard, hiding his exasperation well. “Look, Ash,” Calum begins, his tone completely changing, “the Court doesn’t like Luke because of what they’re aware of what he did with that philanthropist’s husband—what do you think the press are going to have on him after ten minutes? How do you think they’re going to spin it? I can try to shut it down, but without the backing of the Court, the rest of the public relations team—it’s going to be like leading a lamb to slaughter.”

Ashton turns away sharply, grabs his bowtie from where it rests on the hotel bed and walks hurriedly back to his spot in front of the mirror. The worst part—the part that really gets Ashton—is that he knows Calum is right. He knows about all the skeletons lurking in Luke’s closet, and he knows fine well what the press would do if they knew—and they would know, because the press is good at sniffing out blood like that. His hands begin to shake with the injustice of it all, making putting on his bowtie fucking impossible.

“Fuck.”

“Here, let me help—” Calum doesn’t get very far before Ashton cuts him off.

“No, Calum, just—just leave me be for a little while. I need to think. Send my apologies to Mr Lonsdale and his wife for being late, please.”

“Your Highness—”

“Calum, I said I want to be alone. Please—go, just go.”

For a moment, Ashton thinks Calum isn’t going to leave—but he does, eventually, sighing sadly and slipping out of the room as quickly and quietly as he came in. Only when he hears the soft click of the door closing does Ashton drop his bowtie down onto the dresser and throw himself onto the spongy mattress, twisting slightly to grab his phone from the nightstand as he bounces.

Unlocking his phone, Ashton goes straight to the photo gallery and brings up the picture of himself and Luke that never fails to make him smile; it’s a simple, archetypal post-coital selfie with Ashton’s head resting against Luke’s, their curls fanned out like halos or horns on the pillow, and the most magnificent, sleepy, blissed-out look in Luke’s eyes as he smiles with the tiniest little quirk to his lips up at the camera. Ashton subconsciously turns his head to the side, to the cold side of the bed where Luke would be, limbs so long he’d be encroaching on Ashton’s side. He imagines, too, those arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him down like an anchor on choppy water.

Feeling the tightness in his chest begin to pull harder at his heartstrings, Ashton clicks out of the gallery and dials Luke’s number, hit with the sudden urge to hear his voice. It’s fucking pathetic and sappy as hell, but Ashton affords himself a certain amount of foolish behaviour. He’s in love—what can he do?

“’Ey, handsome,” comes Luke’s slightly slurred voice, accompanied by a rather loud, rather repetitive techno bass. “Been thinking about you.”

“Yeah?” Ashton says with a small giggle. Usually, when they start off conversations like this, Ashton has his hands down his boxers and Luke’s name on his lips within minutes, but he resists the urge.

“Mmhmm. So much. Haven’t stopped.”

“Good, good. I—I was just calling to say that I miss you.”

“That’s—that’s so fucking cute, shit,” Luke says, laughing. It’s that squeaky laughs that goes all high and Ashton can just imagine Luke’s dimples showing on his reddening cheeks. “None of your fucking business, asshole,” Ashton hears Luke say next, slightly muffled, like he’s half covering the microphone with his hand. “Sorry, babe, my friend—he’s so fucking nosey, man, wants to know who I’m banging—but we’re not banging, are we? We make love. Dirty fucking love.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” Ashton grins stupidly up at the ceiling for no reason. Speaking to his clearly sloshed boyfriend shouldn’t be this satisfying or amusing, but it is. “I won’t keep you if you’re having fun.”

“I miss you, too, by the way,” Luke adds quickly. “Always do.”

“We’ll be together soon,” Ashton reassures Luke (and himself) before turning onto his side and wrapping an arm around himself. “Enjoy the rest of your night. I’ll call you when I get back to Sydney, alright, babe?”

Luke makes a small guttural noise in agreement, making Ashton laugh again.

After hanging up, Ashton grabs a pillow and clutches it to his chest like a lover, smiling into the feathery softness with a rejuvenated sense of love and passion and _fight_. Nothing—absolutely nothing is going to come between him and Luke, he promises himself. Nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://lindoluke.tumblr.com/) & [fic post](http://lindoluke.tumblr.com/post/155787811526/once-upon-a-dream-lukeashton-royalty-au-in)


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